


Hit me like the sky fell on me

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013-2014 Season Roster, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, New York Rangers, Shower Sex, genital slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows she should step back, put some space between her and Mats, but Mats is warm, still sun-drenched from the sand, and the inside of the concessions stand is in shade, almost chilly after the aggressive heat of the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit me like the sky fell on me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathybites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/gifts).



> Title from "I'm Glad You Came" because I think I'm hilarious. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is for Cathy, of course.

  
  
  


Henrike sees Mats eyebrows go up the second they're told they'll have an extra day in Florida. She stares across the room at Mats, who's excitedly murmuring something to DZ. He laughs, throwing his head back and still managing to give her a sleazy grin.

The beach will be nice, Henrike thinks. It's been too long since she got a proper tan outdoors. She's not big on swimming in the ocean if it's in-season – if she's going out on a boat, it'll be complete with as much acrobatic water-skiing and high-impact tubing as she can cram into it, so the low-risk stuff is just dangling a carrot in front of her that she can't have, not until the season’s over.

Cally knocks her knuckles on her own stall to get their attention, going on to say the usual business about focusing on the game first, and _then_ worrying about their tans. Next to her, Dan raises his eyebrows exaggeratedly at Henrike, pointed. It gets a few snorts from the rest of the team, grins thrown her way.

She rolls her shoulders back and ignores Dan, giving Cally a little smile. She takes her game more seriously than anyone on the team. She'll be ready for the ice - and then yes, the beach will be a luxurious reward.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They kill it on the ice, sure enough. It's a good game, slow in the first and gaining momentum with a pretty wrap-around goal by Richie at the start of the second. Mac and Danny are brutal, smothering Stamkos and St. Louis to just one goal.

Henrike's not happy about that one, but they were down a man and Stralsy was off the kill with a hand getting wrapped against an unlucky blocked shot. She misses Sauer on tough kills like those. Not that she doesn't miss him anyway, but it makes her think of him more, in the thick of the action when her mind plucks thoughts out of her focused autopilot movements at random.

She's still thinking about him when the game wraps up on a solid 60 minutes, 3-1 ending it, and they head out, back to the hotel. She has her phone out, scrolling through her contacts to the “M”s.

“Hey. Got a booty call waiting?” DZ leans his full weight onto her shoulder and makes a mock-grab for her phone.

Henrike draws it out of his reach with ease. “I was thinking about calling Sweet. Actually.” She slides a glance at DZ, whose face is suddenly a lot more serious.

“You guys keep in touch?”

Henrike shrugs. “Enough.”

DZ makes an acknowledging sound.

“Give him a call. He's still team.” Henrike keeps any kind of heat or chastisement out of her voice, but DZ still prickles, shoving his hands in his pockets, frowning deeply.

“Of course he's still team. ...Jesus, Rika.” He huffs, looking unsettled, and draws away from her, strides deliberately long.

She watches him go, bemused, and doesn't notice when Mats sidles up next to her.

“What was _that_?” Mats asks, scrubbing one of her small hands through her birds-nest hair. She got two assists, one of them on Stralsy's game-winner, so she's still a little wired. It'd be endearing if it didn't usually happen to be nerve-grating at the same time.

Henrike hates herself a little for just how much she doesn't care about that when push comes to shove, since Mats all hyped up is smiling and bouncy and _handsy_.

“Nothing.” Henrike tucks the phone back into her inside waistcoat pocket. It's a little too hot in Florida for the trim suit she's wearing, the blazer tucked snug against her ribs and belly. She runs a hand through her own hair, absently wishing for a hair-tie.

“You're coming with to the beach tomorrow, right?” Mats is walking backwards, still managing to bounce a little with each step, and damn her, her energy is so contagious after a win.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Henrike answers wryly, and when Mats beams at her, she can't _not_ smile back, grudging and fond.

Mats winks at her, then spins back around rightaways and jogs off to catch up with Steps and Mac further ahead.

Henrike shakes her head and manages to catch Danny's eye. He's laughing at her, and she just rolls her eyes, still smiling.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It's sunny, a gorgeous day. Most of team is out at the beachfront, a smaller, private location without a lot of other people around. It's perfect. 

Henrike doesn't feel like going in the water, so she stays back in the sand, lounging in a beach chair with her legs kicked out in front of her. Jean shorts and a bikini top – she'll get a good tan if it kills her today.

Dan and Cally are already in the water, have been since Henrike got there and set up her little plot of sand. She doesn't see Mats for a while, and ends up drifting off, the book she was reading loose in her hand.

She wakes abruptly to the feel of damp sand raining down on her.

“Fuck - “ she swears, lapsing into Swedish in surprise, and opens her eyes to see Mats grinning down at her unapologetically.

“Little _shit_.” Henrike brushes the sand off her belly, flicks some away from between her breasts, and doesn't at all feel smug when Mats grin fades as she watches Henrike do it.

“We're playing soccer, wanna join and help me crush DZ?” Mats plants her hands on her slim hips, hooks a thumb in the metal hoops of her bikini bottom.

Henrike lets herself look Mats up and down behind her sunglasses. She looks _good_ , toned and tight and compact.

Mats turns red, just barely. The sun’s pretty brutal out here, Henrike thinks. “No thanks.”

Mats purses her lips. “I guess I'll have to take him down myself, then,” she sighs, mock-put upon.

She leaves in a sprint, kicking up sand again onto Henrike's beach chair, and Henrike really, really wants to strangle her sometimes.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Henrike has a book she brought with her, but she can't focus enough to read more than a few pages at a time. 

The rest of the team that's playing soccer – Mats cajoled Dan and Cally out of the water, and Mooresy and Brass finally showed up too – is doing so a little ways away, far enough that they don't disturb Henrike, but...

But Mats is playing hard, sprinting north to south on the makeshift “field”, and she's laughing the whole time. She takes a split-second breather, resting bent over with her hands planted on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

She yells a question to Mooresy, and Henrike folds her book down against her bare belly, giving up on reading it for the time being.

Johnny glances over at Henrike before shouting something equally incomprehensible back. Henrike feels her eyebrow go up, but then Mats is glancing over her shoulder, giving her a smug chin jerk of acknowledgement.

Henrike thinks she looks ridiculous.

“Just take the fucking throw!” DZ finally bellows, and Mats hoists the ball above her head, leans back to throw -

and does the neatest little forward flip like a hands-free cartwheel, releasing the ball at the top of the flip and landing perfectly again on her feet. The ball itself sails impossibly far across the sand before Dan swears and takes off running for it.

Mats looks over her shoulder again at Henrike, spreads her arms in a cocky “What can I say” gesture, then jogs off after Dan. She exchanges a quick low-five with Mooresy on her way.

Henrike watches from behind her shades, rapt but careful to keep that from showing on her face. Mats catches Dan as he corrals the ball and takes it back down the sand, swerving when he feints to the right before dribbling around her. His move throws her gait off, sends her toppling into the sand. She sticks out a leg to trip him as she falls, shameless and obvious about it, and Cally shouts, “Hey!” in resigned objection.

Henrike has to laugh. It's such a stupid shitty thing, and so _Mats_ it makes an abrupt ache start up in her chest. Suddenly she doesn't want to watch the game anymore, doesn't want to watch Mats run around in her tiny bikini and somehow already-tan skin.

She leaves her book on the beach chair, and goes to get a glass of water from the small concessions shack a little ways off, down the beach.

The guy behind the counter is eying her up, trying to make small talk that Henrike tolerates for a little bit for the sake of being polite, when someone comes up next to her, pushing under her arm.

“What've they got?” Mats asks absently, scanning the menu and not giving a shit she's pressed into Henrike's side in order to do so. She doesn't give Henrike time to answer, either, just orders a slushie and then turns to Henrike, almost uncomfortably close in their shared space. “You'll pay, right?”

Henrike rolls her eyes, but takes her wallet back out of her back pocket, lays down the two dollars it costs, and smiles apologetically at the guy.

She knows she should step back, put some space between her and Mats, but Mats is _warm_ , still sun-drenched from the sand, and the inside of the concessions stand is in shade, almost chilly after the aggressive heat of the beach.

“Slushie, hot dog for the ladies...” The concessions worker drawls, setting them on the counter.

Mats grabs both and herds Henrike toward a table outside.

Henrike trails after her, almost wary. She’s not sure it’s a good idea to be alone with Mats away from the rest of the team.

Mats collapses on the curved table bench, kicking her feet up on the table despite Henrike’s disapproving look. She takes a giant slurp of her slushie and sighs in contentment. 

“How much sugar is in there?” Henrike asks absently while she unwraps her hot dog. 

“Probably as much as there’s actual meat in that hot dog,” Mats mumbles around the straw she has yet to take out of her mouth. 

Henrike pauses, but, well. “Fair enough.” Days like today are rare, and she can indulge without worrying about a game tomorrow. She bites into the hot dog, holding it carefully, and rolls her eyes up with how good it tastes. 

“Why are the best hot dogs from the worst places,” she asks over making a wordless sound of appreciation deep in her throat. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

Mats shrugs, eyes lidded, probably against the sun, as she looks across the table at Henrike. 

“So are you actually gonna participate in team bonding today, or just sit by yourself judging our sweet soccer moves?” she asks after a moment of watching Henrike eat. 

That gets Henrike to grin. “What, I can’t do both?” 

Mats laughs, startled, and it’s fucking – Henrike could look at that forever, all of Mats’ dumb hair sticking out of every band she tries to hold it in with, Mats’ head thrown back on her neck for a split-second and her surprised cackle of a laugh. It’s terrible, and Henrike wants to make it happen over and over and over again. 

She wipes her bottom lip off with her thumb, still smiling like an idiot and tries to regain her control of the conversation – of the situation as a whole, fuck her life.

“I’ll wait until Cally kicks your ass so hard you’re begging me to help, and then I _might_ deign to join your team. Make you properly appreciate it.” 

At some part of that, Henrike registered Mats going still, eyes sparking with something new. She reviews what she said, and, ohh – but it’s too late, Mats’ caught the inadvertent slip and now she’s got the bit in her mouth.

“Wait until I’m begging, huh?” 

“Until you – collective-“ She can’t think of the right word, “General. You. All of you.” Her face slams with heat as Mats just raises her eyebrows impossibly higher, her mouth a perfect “oh”, all mocking and scandalized.

Fine. Mats isn’t the only one who can play dirty. She’s _not_ letting Mats get the best of her, especially not in _this_ stupid conversation. She ignores her pink cheeks, the blush hot under her skin, and leans forward across the table all at once. “Would you like to beg?” she asks, tone precise and interested. “Would you like to ask me for what you need?” She raises one immaculate eyebrow, eyes glinting. Her voice is as relentlessly even as she can make it. “You’d like that.”

The way Mats eyes go dark with surprise, her lips parting with – come _on_ \- a very dirty, wet sound Henrike _wishes_ she didn’t hear, means Henrike has her. 

She smirks, rolls her shoulders back into her regular straight-backed posture. Her smoky bedroom voice disappears between one sip of stolen slushie and the next, and she smiles. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” 

Mats just keeps staring dumbly at her for a moment, obviously not processing this turn of events. “You…” She swallows, throat bobbing as her eyes stay locked on Henrike’s, almost unnerving. 

Henrike just gives her a mild, bland smile. “I…?” she prompts, taking another sip of Mats’ slushie.

“You’re _evil_ ,” Mats finally breathes, and the awed delight in her tone should not make Henrike feel like she’s been stuck in the spine with a red hot poker. 

She carefully doesn’t let it show how much Mats’ response pleases her, just cuts her eyes over to the soccer game that’s since dragged in momentum once Mats left it. 

Brass is crouched down in the sand, seemingly building a sandcastle, though Henrike can’t make out any details of it from here. Mooresy is lying next to him, sprawled full-length in the sand with one elbow propping himself up. 

Mats follows her line of sight. “Cally scored on Brassy, so now he has to make her a Barbie dreamhouse sandcastle,” she explains, like that’s nothing out of the ordinary. 

Which. Given her team… Henrike sighs internally a little, but it’s all dumb affection. “Of course,” she murmurs. 

Mats stands up, stretching up on her toes, fingers grasping upward at nothing, then down to graze the sand. Her belly folds a little as she bends over. Henrike makes sure she is staring intently at the ocean again once Mats straightens up. 

“You going back to the game?” she asks, when Mats just looks at her like she’s waiting for Henrike to tell her what they’re doing. 

Mats shrugs. “You going back to your book?”

Henrike returns the shrug, rolling her eyes. “Maybe. I don’t think there’s much of a game left, anymore.” 

She gets up, and Mats tracks her movement like she’s waiting for Henrike to do something. What, Henrike has no idea. She gives Mats something of a funny, questioning look. Mats eyelashes immediately sweep down over her eyes, looking away, and she swallows a couple times. Clears her throat. 

“I’m, uh. I’m just gonna go shower, I think,” she says, not looking Henrike in the eye. “So. That’s where I’ll be.”

Henrike nods, bemused, watching Mats closely and feeling like she’s…missed something, here.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Twenty minutes later, nobody’s seen Mats. 

Henrike tells herself that it’s no big deal. Mats gets bored and wanders off constantly. And she’s not as dumb as that makes her sound – Staalsie’s found her in enough intriguingly compromising positions it speaks to a _lot_ of premeditation and forethought. Marc doesn’t talk about their last visit to the zoo anymore. At all. 

(Having been friends with the only female Staal sibling in the NHL from the start, Henrike’s been privy to the certain little details that slip through the cracks when shenanigans are recounted to a hooting locker-room audience. Like the fact that Mats managed to sneak her way into the penguin feeding-prep area, bypassing all sorts of health code lines. Only to be found by Staalsie - who in resignation figures it’s karma taking its toll on her having stirred up so much shit at home for her brothers - making out against a door with the short, chubby blonde zookeeper who’d led the penguins on their cute little march across their habitat an hour earlier for them. 

Marc says getting her out of there without the zookeeper making a scene had been a terror. Henrike believes it. She’d probably pitch a fit if she had to give up an eager armful of Mats, too. 

Marc rolled her eyes expansively when Henrike had added that. The rest of their weekly coffee date ended up trading amused little snipes and jabs more than the usual casual gossip.)

“Rika! Hey!” Johnny Moore waves from a ways down the beach. “Hey! We’re going for lunch!” He sweeps an arm toward himself and the parking lot – _let’s go_.

Henrike knows there’d been talk of going to a nearby pub for food and some beers before returning to the beach, and she gives him a nod. 

“You coming?”. 

“Meet you guys back here,” Henrike calls. She gets a double thumbs-up in understanding before he’s turning to jog back the other way, a little faster this time. 

Henrike smiles, content with this slow, indulgent day and spending it with her team. 

She goes to find Mats.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She’s checked everywhere, all over the stupid beachfront. No Mats. 

Henrike is getting frustrated enough that she swears when her foot catches on something in the sand. Bright green, a plastic edge: an old Frisbee, half buried high on the shoreline. She kicks it, and it doesn’t even do her the courtesy of wobbling out of the hold of the sand. 

“Come on, Zucca,” she mutters to herself, trudging on. There’s one last stretch of showers, and isn’t that just like Mats, to stretch her boundaries, go to the farthest possible point just to see who comes to drag her back?

That needles at Henrike and she lets out a harsh exhale. The sand is hard to walk quickly in, and she’s tired, and she doesn’t _want_ to think about Mats craving attention, doesn’t want to think about the kid’s obvious need to please and impress and prove herself and- It always ends up with Henrike mortified and ashamed, closing the lid on one of a thousand stray fantasies about showing Mats just how much Henrike would appreciate her, how pleased she could make Henrike. 

Because Henrike knows that already, without having more than her own private thoughts leading the two of them down that road. She knows Mats would please her, knows because Mats already does that; she already impresses the shit out of Henrike with her work ethic, her focus, how she always comes up swinging. One of the first things that turned Henrike’s head about Mats was the kindred snarling refusal to be anything less than the best they can be. 

She knows in her bones that if Mats wanted her, they could do anything together. 

But she doesn’t. Mats doesn’t want her, and Henrike needs to get the fuck over herself and accept that. Cally needles her about it, thinks that Henrike is so used to having women fall adoringly at her feet that she’s lost the ability to be okay with those who don’t. Henrike knows Cally doesn’t mean it, not deep down – but something about it rankles, even so. 

Sudden shade takes Henrike by surprise and she looks up to see the last of the shower buildings looming above her. Last time she looked up, it was a good thirty yards away still. This close, though, she can hear the faint hiss of a shower running inside.

That better be you, Zucca, she thinks, frowning. Little shit, leading her on this wild goose chase all over the damn beach, only to have to go back a deserted near-mile _again_ to the parking lot.

Stepping inside, a blast of hot air hits her face as soon as she turns the modesty corner. And sure enough, there’s Mats’ duffel slung on the floor by the last stall. 

For some reason, Henrike doesn’t call out. 

She swallows, scoots a little closer to that stall. It’s been way too long, and that’s after checking all the other showers. Mats should be done by now. 

Finally, right outside the flimsy curtain to the last stall, she clears her throat. “Mats?” She pitches it low, not wanting to startle Mats too badly, but she hears a cut-off noise like a hiccup, cut off suddenly and followed by the obvious slip of flip-flops on tile and she has visions of Mats falling wrong, and drags the shower curtain aside all at once. The movement is arrested when her brain freezes, unable to process what she’s seeing.

Mats. Wet, _naked_ Mats. Wet, naked Mats, who’s flushed and pink-cheeked from the hot water, looking up at Henrike with big eyes and her mouth open. 

Mats, whose gaze abruptly drops from Henrike’s face as she makes a sound like a wounded animal and curls in on herself, and that’s when Henrike processes Mats’ fingers, buried between her legs. She can’t breathe, wide-eyed and unable to tear her eyes away from, god, this sight she can’t believe is right in front of her. Of all the filthy, slutty moves Mats has ever pulled, this has to take the goddamned _cake_.

“ _Mats_ ,” Henrike hisses, not sure if she’s angry or just gobsmacked at Mats’ nerve, god. Nevertheless, she finds herself closing the curtain needlessly behind herself and stepping closer. The water drifts against her cheek, dampening the loose oxford she’s wearing over her bikini top and shorts. 

“Rika.” Mats’ gets out, voice strangled as she goes for a manic cheerfulness she doesn’t pull off by a mile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

That’s it. Henrike’s done being toyed with, and she lets her frustration bleed into her voice as she steps close enough to box Mats in against the far wall. 

“Of course,” she huffs, furious and sarcastic. “Nice try. How long have you been in here, Zucc?” 

She watches the way Mats mouth falls open, the way her throat ripples on a swallow, and plows right ahead. She’s earned it.  
“Were you waiting for me?”

Mats gasps when Henrike touches her jaw with careful fingers, just the pads of her fingertips resting on the sharp curve of bone.

“No,” Mats says, and it’s a barely-there sound, punctuated by another sharp gasp when Henrike strokes her thumb under Mats’ jaw. 

“No,” she repeats, halfway to mocking. Mats is a _terrible_ liar, holy shit. Her eyes are skittering everywhere, the tips of her ears bright red, and the tone of her voice is all wrong. 

“I wasn’t,” Mats insists. “I didn’t-”

“You did not what.” Henrike grips Mats’ chin a little harder in warning. “Mats...?”

“I didn’t think you would show up.” It comes out as a snarl, and Mats jerks away from Henrike’s touch, curling in on herself in obvious defensiveness. 

Henrike draws back a miniscule amount, nonplussed. She never stopped to consider that Mats wasn’t perfectly aware of her own desirability, that Mats would ever question the fact that Henrike would want her exactly as she is. Mats is made up of swagger and easy self-assurance. 

Faced with Mats being vulnerable…she’s not on even ground anymore, and her chest aches at the idea of Mats curling further away from her if she says the wrong thing. But it sounds like… If she can reassure Mats that this is something they both want…

“I did show up,” she says, searching. She thinks she knows how this is going to unfold, even as she shoves those thoughts to the furthest corner of her brain so she can concentrate on this moment. Just this one, right here. She wants to be sure Mats is saying what Henrike hopes she is, and considering how little has _actually_ been said so far on it, well. This could go in too many different directions – as her mind unhelpfully begins to present her with in sudden, tragic detail.

Mats makes a small noise of agreement – yes, Henrike did show up -, but doesn’t lift her eyes from off the floor. Her cheeks are still pink, and the water is still hot, and she looks almost blurry through all the steam. Her breasts are small, the nipples perked up like the curve on her stick blades, and Henrike feels hot from more than just the shower. She steels herself and puts it all on the line.

“Is it okay I showed up?”

That gets Mats to respond with a little more of her usual attitude, and her smile only wobbles a little when she answers, “Guess that depends on what you do next, huh?”

Henrike gives Mats time to draw away as she takes the one step closer she needs in order to press right up against Mats’ body, and when Mats starts breathing faster and doesn’t stop her, Henrike nudges her gently until Mats’ back against the tile wall. Despite the seeming evidence Mats is giving her, she still asks. “Yes?”

“ _Please_ ,” Mats answers, adds a, “Rika-” on a rising whine.

Mats initiates the kiss, standing up on tiptoes to reach Henrike’s mouth, already groaning into it from the first touch of their lips. She breaks off for a second to whisper “Fuck,” sounding wrecked just from Henrike slipping her some tongue. 

They reconnect and everything’s hot and slick, water droplets from Mats’ hair running down her nose and into the kiss. Henrike sucks hard at a drop hovering on Mats’ bottom lip and Mats’ moan is more of a whine, high-pitched in a way that makes Henrike tighten her hold on her hips involuntarily. She presses up into Henrike without shame, writhing a little when her cunt brushes the rough fabric of Henrike’s shorts. 

And that’s just - _yes_ , oh god. That undoes her. Henrike loses any semblance of composure at that.

She guides Mats’ thigh in between her own, makes encouraging noises without managing to stop the relentless way she’s claiming Mats mouth, her clever tongue, for her own. Mats lines up enough to rub off on Henrike’s shorts and starts panting, breaking her focus and making her lips go slack and open against Henrike’s.

“Mmn, lemmie- Mats. Mats,” Henrike gasps, trying to get her attention. “That can’t be comfortable.”

A smug snort. “I like it a little rough.”

That filters into Henrike’s brain in pieces, and by the time she processes it, Mats is mouthing bruises onto Henrike’s throat, murmuring appreciation into her collarbones. Nosing under the collar of Henrike’s shirt to get at more skin, still working her hips up against Henrike’s thigh. She’s wet, slick with more than shower water, and she smears along Henrike’s skin sometimes when she slips down, brushes bare leg where the shorts don’t quite cover.

Henrike more, all of it, nothing less than everything Mats is willing to give. She takes her hands off Mats’ gorgeous hips with an effort and pops the button on her shorts, dragging the zipper down and the shorts off with one smooth move. 

Mats immediately takes advantage, because when doesn’t she push something to the limit once she feels she has the upper hand? Henrike is on the verge of smiling fondly when Mats hands wrap around her waist. 

“Are you-? Do you like-?” Mats doesn’t seem to know how to finish the question, even as her thumbs stroke teasingly along the thin skin of Henrike’s hipbones. It’s excruciating, especially when Mats slides her palms down, digs the balls of her thumb in that sensitive place right beneath the bone, massaging the soft give of flesh in a way that makes Henrike _squirm_. 

“I like whatever you want to do,” Henrike confesses, ready to lose her mind if Mats doesn’t touch her, or she doesn’t get her tongue on Mats, or any combination she can think of between. 

Mats looks up at her, dark eyes twinkling. 

“Anything? What if I wanted something horrible? You can’t give everyone that kind of permission, love.”

The casual pet name ignites a fierce bloom of something in Henrike’s chest, and she hauls Mats in until there’s barely a few inches between them. She tilts her head down, noses into the warm skin, damp, at Mats’ throat. “That’s why,” she says, “I _don’t_ give everyone that permission.”

Mats only looks up at her wide-eyed for a moment before throwing herself at Henrike. That’s not ever going to get old, Henrike thinks: Startling Mats, catching her off-guard in the best possible ways…Henrike’s already had a field day thinking about that kind of thing in bed, and now it’s only promising to get _better_? Fuck. Mats is here; Mats is touching her; this is actually happening. 

Mats plucks urgently at the buttons of Henrike’s soaked-through shirt, her other hand flat-palmed and feeling up Henrike’s belly as she makes awful, gorgeous, greedy sounds. Henrike feels like Mats is trying to touch every part of her at once, and she can only cling onto Mats’ small shoulders and open her mouth against Mats’ throat. 

She groans Mats’ name when Mats strips her out of her shirt, sleeves catching until Henrike shakes them off and Mats throws it in the corner of the shower, not caring about the water beating down on it.

Mats chants something under her breath, and doesn’t repeat it when Henrike makes an inquisitive noise. They’re both distracted, so it doesn’t matter, but Henrike files it away anyway in case it happens again. She wants to hear everything out of this woman’s mouth from now on. 

(Her mouth quirks into a smirk despite herself at that thought, knowing she’s signing up for something with that that could drive her insane within an hour if she’s not careful.)

It’s not like anyone’s going to find them here, not this far out, and Mats seems to be taking that to heart: the _sounds_ she’s making, good lord. They’re unlike anything Henrike’s ever heard out of her, and she’s done some extensive mental cataloguing of how Mats sounds. Little gasps when Henrike drags her tongue across Mats’ throat, deeper moans when Henrike bends her head to mouth carefully at a nipple, fingers digging into Mats’ waist. 

And then – 

“Want your mouth,” Mats slurs, reaching up to trace the bow of Henrike’s lips, wet with spit and water and the intangible salt from the sweat on Mats’ skin. Her fingers are shaking where they touch Henrike, slipping to her bottom lip while Mats stares at Henrike’s mouth, dazed and fucked-up and looking like she’s already gone three rounds in bed.

The sound Henrike makes in response isn’t a whine, but it’s damn close. She drags Mats close, “Yeah, yeah- yes, get up-” then manages to have what feels like the first coherent thought she’s had since she stepped inside the stall. There’s a shelf built into the shower wall at waist height, and Henrike gathers Mats up close, puts her on the shelf with one quick move. She makes sure Mats’ ass is balanced well enough on the edge and then-

“H-oh. Rika- Mats’ voice goes high, thready without breath as Henrike steps right in between Mats’ spread thighs. She only has to bend down a little bit to get at her cunt, and she doesn’t bother taking her time. 

Mats starts chanting her name as soon as Henrike licks up into her, mouthing the shower water off her thighs and the thatch of hair that’s just as unruly as the hair on Mats’ head. Henrike fucking loves it.  
She smacks the sensitive thin skin on the inside of Mats’ thigh. Her palm hits muscle, an old bruise, and Mats doesn’t bite her lip fast enough to keep in the sincere, gut-deep _groan_ that gets. 

Henrike teases her tongue across just the edges of Mats’ labia, smirking up at her. “That do it for you, huh?”

Mats, to her credit, does try to glare back down at Henrike. “No.”

Henrike raises an eyebrow. “All right. So no more of that, then. Got it.” She buries her face back in Mats’ cunt before she can hear the response to that. They’re just out of the reach of the shower spray, the water misting over them just enough to make everything damp and gorgeous, skin sliding against Henrike’s cheek when Mats flexes or brings her ankle up around Henrike’s side.

She feels Mats’ hands in her hair and doesn’t even care, not when she has her mouth over the hottest place she’s ever been, and she fucks her tongue inside when Mats tugs experimentally on her hair. 

The shocked gasp that gets her is entirely worth Mats messing up her hair. 

She goes at it harder, getting a finger in alongside her tongue and setting about opening Mats up even more, loving every sound and twitch of Mats’ thighs next to her head as she explores. 

It’s so slick, down between Mats’ legs, and Henrike wants to stay here forever. She turns her head to catch her breath for a moment, nips at Mats’ hipbone, and relishes the increasingly high-pitched whines she can feel coming right from Mats’ belly. “Rika? Rika- oh, _oh_ , oh oh oh, Ri-” 

Mats is losing it, and Henrike is right there with her, feeling almost ecstatic with it. She seals her mouth over Mats’ core and sucks hard, a filthy slurp that leaves her mouth dripping, before mouthing up to Mats’ clit and laving her tongue over it until Mats’ small hands tighten painfully in her hair and she curls up around Henrike’s head, exhaling obscenely loud as she comes, spasming almost violently around Henrike’s mouth. 

Henrike can’t even process how hot it is. She feels lost, doesn’t want to take her mouth away, wants to live here between Mats thighs forever. It’s hot, smells divine, tastes even better, and she gets her teeth in the spot across Mats’ hip that she’d nipped earlier. Her thumb finds Mats’ clit, strokes it with the lightest touch, and Mats pants, still curled down around Henrike. 

“Fuuuuuu-” Mats breathes, seemingly unable to bite out the fricatives at the end. Her fingers don’t loosen their hold in Henrike’s hair. Henrike can feel her flutter again around Henrike’s thumb as it travels down to prod at Mats’ hole, dip inside to spread around the slick. 

“Rika,” Mats sighs, and she doesn’t seem to be any calmer, still trying to work her hips up into Henrike’s touch. Henrike catches her bottom lip in her teeth, looks up at Mats with an adoration she can’t hide. 

“What’d you need, Zucc? You still need one?” she asks. Her eyelashes are sticking together, clumping as water droplets spike off them and down her temples. Her hair has to be a mess, half of it out of her ponytail holder and drifting wetly down her neck and across her throat in its long waves. 

Mats manages a laugh, even as she shivers. Henrike can feel it travel through her belly, down to her thighs. She thinks for an absurd moment she can feel the way Mats’ stomach clenches with it; her fingers are still softly stroking into Mats. Henrike meant it to ease her down, but it seems to just be prolonging Mats’ pleasure, drawing it out. 

“I just – you would? I can do you,” Mats says, “I wanna, believe me.”

Henrike fucking loves it. But. “No. We have time, right? Later.”

And she crooks her fingers just right, enough to make Mats choke on her next breath, pant through it when she says, “Later, o-oh. oh god, yes, okay?” her voice going high and breathless as her eyes screw shut again.

Henrike sucks the water, the slick off Mats’ clit and closes her teeth very carefully over it just to hear the way those whines come out lower, deeper, the kind of throaty moans Henrike loves hearing from women in bed.

She hums against skin and slick, relishing it. Almost reluctantly, she draws off for a second. Meets Mats’ eyes. 

“You’re sure you’re not into anything else, huh?” She flexes her fingers gracefully, and Mats swallows hard.

She lets Mats think about it for a long moment, patient. She’s about to break the silence herself when-

“Do it,” Mats whispers. 

Henrike smiles, proud of her, and slaps her open-handed, right over her clit. Mats’ eyes roll back in her head, sobbing Henrike’s name as Henrike immediately lowers her mouth to Mats’ cunt again, lips open and soft to soothe the sting. She rubs the pads of her thumbs across the long tendons in Mats’ thighs on either side of her head, gentle, and waits.

“D-do it again. Rika? Plea- _Ungh_!-“

Henrike gives her another smack before she’s done asking for it, making a dirty squelch as her fingers are drenched. Mats doesn’t make a sound, just seizes up with orgasm, and clenches down desperately on the finger Henrike slides into her. Over and over again, and it seems endless, the hot clutch of Mats cunt around her and under her tongue and the smell of her surrounding them both. 

Mats starts to relax in increments, and Henrike gives her one last affectionate stroke inside, circles her clit until Mats squeaks and pushes at Henrike’s head, laughing. 

“God, enough, enough,” she says. Her voice is ragged, absolutely ruined, and Henrike feels a hot surge of possessiveness. She did that. 

“Disagree,” Henrike mutters against the inside of Mats’ knee. “Not enough.”

Mats winds her fingers through Henrike’s hair, shimmies back as far as the shelf will let her, and tugs Henrike up. 

“Enough for me. For _now_ ,” she adds, and tilts her head for a kiss.  
Henrike obliges, and Mats breaks away after a moment. 

“Now, in the matter of enough for _you_ …”

They’ve been gone for ages, the team is probably freaking out, and everything responsible in Henrike is blaring sirens at her to get back to everyone, now. 

Mats’ nimble hands find skin as she rucks up the hemline of Henrike’s white shirt, soaked through completely by now. 

“We have to wait to get this dry, anyway, right?” 

Henrike gives Mats an eyebrow at that. “We’re at the _beach_. We’re supposed to get wet.”

She regrets it the second it’s out of her mouth, the second Mats’ lips twist up in a delighted, juvenile smirk. 

The team can wait, she thinks, leaning in to stop whatever awful joke Mats is about to make with her mouth and a judicious application of teeth to Mats’ neck. 

That Barbie dreamhouse sandcastle wasn’t anywhere near done. They have time.


End file.
